


Just You

by pinstripedJackalope



Series: TSC Oneshots [2]
Category: The Infernal Devices Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Canon Compliant, Coughing, Fainting, Gen, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst, London Shadowhunter Institute, Other, Parabatai, Parabatai Feels, Pre-Canon, Sick Will Herondale, Sickfic, Whump, uhhhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22081387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope
Summary: Will has been at the London Institute for two years when he gets sick once again.  This time, however, he refuses to admit that he's sick.  There's only one person who can help.
Relationships: Jem Carstairs & Will Herondale
Series: TSC Oneshots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1659478
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48





	Just You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Heronstairs2014](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronstairs2014/gifts).



Another year. Another bloody year, and Will still hadn’t learned anything about the curse that had been put on him. Not for lack of trying, mind—he’d scoured the Institute library from top to bottom looking for anything he could use to break the curse. Oh sure, he’d learned that the strange box he’d opened was called a _Pyxis_ , and that it contained demon energies. He’d learned that curses were common in history books. But how to break them, how to rid yourself of one? No. As far as he could tell, the only helpful books were in Purgatic, and though he was learning the language, progress was slow due to the god-awful headaches it gave him.

Headaches like the one he had now. With a deep sigh, Will leaned back in his bed, scrubbing his hands up and down his face. He was so tired, but still sleep evaded him—every time he closed his eyes it was just in time to see Ella, her face colored with garish markings, bloated almost beyond recognition. It was the second anniversary of her death coming up in a few days, and as it approached Will was finding that his mood was tanking just as fast as his ability to get a good night’s rest.

Groaning long and loud, Will forced himself to roll out of bed, snatching up the sword that was leaning next to his pillow. If he couldn’t sleep then he might as well train. Put himself to some _use_.

The training rooms were up in the attic, and Will had long since perfected two routes up—one that evaded every occupied room in the Institute so that no one would bother him with questions or, god forbid, attempts at friendship; and one that evaded every occupied room in the Institute aside from Jem’s, so that he could check in on his _parabatai_ on his way past. 

It was the second route he took today, coming up to Jem’s door and holding his breath a moment so he could listen at the keyhole. There was no violin playing, as there likely would be if Jem was having the same problem sleeping as Will was—no sound of shuffling or turning pages, either. The crack under the door was dark, which meant that the lights were off. Will leaned closer to the door, turning the knob and easing it open. 

The room was shadowed, the moon just a sliver in the window. Jem lay in bed, curled up and facing the other wall, his hair shining in even that dim light. He was asleep, as far as Will could tell. That was fine. That was good, even. His _parabatai_ needed the rest. Will breathed out, easing the door closed again. Then he raised his witchlight and continued on his way to the attic.

The training room was cold when Will reached it. He wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if the higher he went the colder it got, which seemed a little backwards to him. It wouldn’t matter much, he figured—he was here to work up a sweat, after all. He turned on the gas lights and then set about readying himself, pulling on his training gear.

He’d grown a lot in the last two years. Height-wise, of course, but also in muscle—he’d had to go up three sizes in training gear since he first came to the Institute. His sisters probably wouldn’t recognize him if he—

He shut down that thought like a portcullis slamming shut. It was time to lose himself into mindless hacking. And not the sort that the tickle in his throat seemed intent to give him—he smothered a cough into his elbow before raising his sword and taking a wild swing at the mannequin in the corner.

The shock of the blow rattled up his arm, harsher than he remembered sword fighting to be. True, he generally preferred ranged weapons—throwing knives were his specialty—but he usually enjoyed the intensity of a good sword battle. 

Not tonight, apparently. He cleared his throat, wincing at the soreness there. First the headache, and now this? He shook his head. His body was rebelling against him and that simply would not do.

With a battle cry, Will raised the sword again. And then again. And again.

It was going to be a long night.

***

“Jem, have you seen Will?”

Jem, who had just taken his seat at the breakfast table, looked up at Charlotte. He was not, as he’d suspected, the last one to breakfast—that honor went to Will, who was nowhere to be seen. “I have not,” he answered, reaching for a roll. “Would you like me to go find him?”

Charlotte sighed. “If you would, though he’ll no doubt be cross about it. We have a mission from the Clave that needs seeing to, and I thought it would be the perfect opportunity for you two to stretch your legs a bit. I was going to brief you over breakfast.”

Jem nodded, already standing. “That sounds good. He’ll be excited to have a mission, I’m sure.”

“I sure hope so,” Charlotte said. She then waved Jem off with a promise that she’d save some eggs for him and Will both.

The first place Jem looked was, he thought, the most obvious. It wouldn’t have been the first time that Will overslept. Usually Sophie or Thomas got him up and about, but it also wouldn’t be the first time that Will kicked them out and went straight back to sleep.

Will’s room was empty, though—the bedspread didn’t look slept in, though it was slightly mussed as if Will had been sitting on it. The precariously stacked pile of books on his dresser was looking a little low—perhaps he’d gone to the library for new reading material and forgot the time?

But no, that too was empty. Jem folded his arms. If he were Will—though thankfully he was not—where would he be? Out riding one of the horses? 

No, it was too early in the morning, too cold. 

Wandering London? 

Possibly, though Will’s late nights usually ended before the early morning. He didn’t usually stay out the whole night. 

Training?

…Hm. Now there was an idea.

Jem climbed the stairs to the attic, and, just as he’d hoped, began to hear the sounds of fighting. There was also, however, a great deal of swearing, and then, in the middle of that, a coughing fit that made Jem wince to himself. That did not sound good. He hurried his pace, climbing the last steps in a couple of easy bounds so that he could push the door open.

There he was, the man of the hour. Jem paused in the doorway, watching as Will leaned over a downed mannequin. His chest was heaving for air, his face flushed high. Much, much higher than usual, Jem noted. And, though he was trying to smother them into his elbow, a series of wrenching coughs were pouring from his throat like a waterfall. 

Jem shook his head. “Will, I think it’s time to take a break.”

Will apparently hadn’t noticed Jem come in, because he jumped when Jem spoke. He straightened up all at once, swallowing down more coughs. “And why the hell would I do that?” he asked, disdainful.

“You’re sick,” Jem responded, simply.

“I am _not_ ,” Will snarled. He then raised his sword and drove it down into the mannequin, hacking away at it like it had done him a personal disservice.

Oh, dear. So it was to be one of those days. Jem hadn’t seen Will this ornery since the last time he was sick, when he threw a pitcher of water at Sophie. That had been around this time last year, come to think of it—nearly to the day, in fact. Interesting.

But Jem would have to think more on that later. For now he needed to go and grab Will before he accidentally stabbed himself in the foot. He strode into the room, intending to literally grab Will about the waist and drag him from the mannequin, but before he got there Will paused his assault. His face, previously flushed and sweaty, had gone an odd, mealy white. The sword in his hands wavered, the point going down until it hit the floor. Will leaned heavily on it for a moment, his head hanging between his shoulders. Then, all at once, the sword slipped out from under him, hitting the floor with a clatter, Will following closely behind.

Jem let out a curse, darting forward. He managed to grab hold of Will just before he joined the weapon on the floor and cut his face open on it, thank god. Will was dead weight, however—he was completely limp, and so hot that it felt like he was _burning_.

“Come on, you bastard,” Jem said, voice high and slightly strained as he dragged his _parabatai_ away from the deceased mannequin. It only took a few seconds, and he was just debating whether to lower Will down and run for help when Will’s unsteady voice came from somewhere around his elbow, asking, “Wha’ happened?” 

It seemed as if he’d woken. Jem breathed out a sigh of relief. Will, as if hearing him, started squirming gracelessly, arms flailing out at random. Jem grunted, trying to keep hold of him. “Stop moving, I’m going to drop you,” he said. 

It took a moment, but Will stilled, hanging heavy in Jem’s grip. Jem slowly lowered him to the ground, setting him on his butt. He let go experimentally, waiting to see if Will was going to go all the way down and ready to slow the descent if he was.

He didn’t, thankfully. His face was still extraordinarily pale, though, and Jem shook his head. “Lean forward, put your head between your knees,” he said, pushing on the top of Will’s head.

“What for?” Will snapped, already obeying despite his attitude. 

“It helps when you’re feeling faint.”

“I’m not—”

Jem tugged on the curls under his hand. “I dare you to finish that sentence,” he said, voice cold. 

Will did not. He instead folded over, his head between his knees and his arms wrapped around them.

“Okay,” Jem said, his voice still frigid. “What we’re going to do is wait a moment to see if you can walk on your own. If you can’t then I’ll help you down the stairs so you don’t crack your head open. Either way, I’m going to take you to your room, and…”

He paused. The unslept-in-bed, sick Will in the training room, Will nearly passing out… it just occurred to him that the combination of those three things would imply that Will had been in here all night, hacking away at the mannequins. 

Jem didn’t usually feel anger at Will—he knew Will acted the way he did for a reason, and though he reprimanded him rather a lot it never effected how he felt toward his _parabatai_. Right now, however, the anger was right at the surface. Anger and a deep, heady sense of frustration. Because Will was being very purposeful right now, trying to train himself to death, and he didn’t—he just couldn’t understand why Will was _hurting_ himself like this.

“And what?” Will asked, his voice snide. “Are you going to rat me out to Charlotte? Make mommy come and take care of me?”

“No,” Jem said. He rubbed his forehead, running his hand back through his hair. “Though I am going to tell her that we’re not taking the mission she has for us today.”

Will’s head whipped up, his eyes ablaze. The movement wrenched another cough from him. Thankfully, his color was coming back. _Un_ thankfully came the look in his eyes—a swirl of frustration, anger, and stubbornness, all mixed up together as he glared up at Jem, unable to speak.

Well, that made two of them. Jem crossed his arms, staring his _parabatai_ down. “If you think, after the stunt you just pulled, that you’re going out _demon hunting,_ then I have a piece of my mind I’d like to give you.”

Jem saw Will’s jaw muscles flexing as he ground his teeth. “And what _stunt_ was that?” he demanded, once the coughing fit was over.

 _Deep breath, Jem_. Jem closed his eyes and sucked in air, holding it and willing himself to calm down. He didn’t want to be angry at Will—he just wanted to help him, to take care of him and make him feel better. To do something about whatever it was about this time of the year that dragged him down so relentlessly.

Will was looking at him as he opened his eyes again, breathing out. Underneath the anger, he found, there was worry. A lot of worry. And fondness, still, always. And love. He loved Will more than it felt like he’d ever loved anyone. And fear, so much fear—he’d been so _scared_ when Will passed out. It hadn’t been a conscious reaction, but he could feel it now, churning in his gut.

With this in mind, he knelt down before Will and reached out a hand to the boy’s forehead. Will flinched when he came into contact with his hot skin, as if he was fighting down the impulse to tear himself away. But it was Jem—Jem, who had won the right to touch Will because of the _parabatai_ runes decorating their skin. Jem, the only one that Will would let in.

“You scared me,” Jem said, slow and purposeful. “I don’t ever want to see you push yourself beyond your limits like that, not again. Not today, not any other day, not ever. So please… please let me take care of you.”

Will swallowed. For a moment, Jem thought he wouldn’t respond, that he’d pull away and close off and never let Jem in again. But he didn’t. His voice was rough when he finally said, “Fine, if you must. Just… just you, though, okay?”

Jem nodded. “Just me. Now let’s get you to bed.”


End file.
